


Stalking Malfoy's Arse, or Midnight Machinations

by pierrot_dreams, slashpervert



Series: Stalking Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, BDSM, M/M, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashpervert/pseuds/slashpervert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows Draco Malfoy is up to something evil. So when he sees Malfoy sneak into Severus Snape's office, he follows to find out what nefarious acts they may be involved in. And he is unable to tear his eyes away when he witnesses just how far the two will go!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalking Malfoy's Arse, or Midnight Machinations

**Author's Note:**

> **Betas:** brknhalo241, Mini Mouse, and aislinntlc.  
>  **Notes:** Harry as voyeur. PWP. Canon to OTP, AU from sixth year. Snape teaching potions, no Horcruxes. Gift fic for songquake as part of the 2010 LJ snaco_exchange. The first draft of this was written a couple years ago.  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a non-commercial work of fan fiction intended for adult audiences only. No copyright infringement intended.  
>  **Distribution:** Distribution is limited to personal use. Do NOT repost without written permission. See explanation [HERE](http://slashpervert.livejournal.com/242164.html). You can find links to translations of my stories [HERE](http://slashpervert.livejournal.com/208619.html).

Hermione said that he was obsessed. She said this with that certain Hermione look, one bushy eyebrow crooked, that made Harry feel distinctly nervous. Ron didn't agree with Hermione exactly, Malfoy's a wanker and no mistake, but, well, perhaps it was getting a bit much, you know? He didn't actually say the word 'stalking.' Neither of them did. But Hermione's eyebrows and Ron's evasiveness made it very clear that though the word was left unspoken, it was very much appropriate.

Harry checked the map again. Malfoy's name was spelled out in spidery cursive, an inkblot away from one Severus Snape.

Hermione had said that there was no doubt a perfectly reasonable explanation. Extra potions lessons, perhaps; Lucius slipping Snape a few Galleons to tutor his son for their upcoming OWLS. Ron, quailing under Hermione's eyebrow, had agreed.

But Harry had a hunch, and he wouldn't let it go no matter how many hints Hermione dropped or worried looks Ron shot in his direction. There was something _off_ between Snape and Malfoy this year, something tangibly _strange_ in the air between them. It was in the way that Malfoy's eyes followed Snape around the Great Hall, like a dog catching a scent, and how when their eyes met they held for a moment too long. It was in the far too familiar way Snape addressed Malfoy in class now, no longer with the brisk disinterest his tone had always held in past years. And then there were Malfoy's visits to Snape's office in the dead of night that Harry couldn't ignore. Malfoy would stay in there for hours sometimes, and the next morning at breakfast the slimy git would be wearing an expression of smug satisfaction that Harry did not at all trust.

It was weird, was what. The two people who topped Harry's list of People Who Were Probably Working for Voldemort, suddenly casting glances and conspiring in the night? Snape and Malfoy were plotting something, something Dark, and whatever shadowy machinations were being ... er ... machinated in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter intended to find out.

The air outside the Potions classroom was appropriately dank, musty with the smell of powdered and pickled things in dusty jars. He glanced at the map to confirm that Malfoy and Snape were in the office still, which they were, and pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around himself. The irony that he was breaking school rules to enter the one place, aside from number four Privet Drive, he had so long wished to avoid was not lost on him.

Harry twisted the door-handle gently, wincing at the telltale click. There came no roar of outrage from within, or running footsteps, or alarms tripped. Harry exhaled in relief. The classroom was dark, the only light spilling from a crack in the door that led to Snape's office. A door that was slightly ajar. Harry's breath caught in his throat for a minute – but no, the thunder of his heartbeat must be audible only to him, not nearly loud enough to fetch Snape and Malfoy. Making sure his wand was firmly in his hand, a _Stupefy_ ready on the tip of his tongue, Harry slipped into the silent classroom and closed the door behind him.

He stood for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. As they did, the murky shapes of desks and empty cauldrons taking form, Harry's hearing seemed to grow sharper as well. Or perhaps it was the overwhelming silence of the classroom, strangely eerie without the noxious vapors simmering over potions and Snape's snide voice cutting through the fumes. Either way, Harry could make out muffled noises coming from Snape's office. He crept closer, almost shocked at his own daring – second-guessing himself at the worst possible moment as usual, rethinking the angle of a dive for the Snitch seconds before his fingers closed around it – but in the Muggle detective programmes his Uncle Vernon used to watch, whenever criminal elements conspired in dark rooms at night it was always to discuss exactly the sort of deeply important and highly sensitive information that the detective needed to solve the case. Harry allowed himself a fleeting ridiculous fancy that Snape could even be divulging Voldemort's most intimate secrets to Malfoy, his trusted lieutenant.

Yet, as Harry drew closer, he realised it didn't sound much like Death Eater shop talk. No low voices pregnant with importance, or even the light tones of conversation. In fact, it almost sounded like ... moaning?

***

Draco strolled down the dungeon corridor, looking calm and casual to anyone who have might noticed. They wouldn't be able to see his heart beating faster as he made his way into the Potions Classroom and to the door of Severus Snape's office. He stood for a moment, gathering himself before he raised his hand and knocked.

"Come in," a voice from within called in the usual funereal monotone.

When Draco opened the door, he found Snape grading papers, or pretending to. The professor kept his eyes fixed firmly on the scratch of his quill across parchment as Draco pushed the door closed behind him and came to stand in front of the desk, one hand on his cocked hip. Waiting. Snape did not look up. His dark slick hair fell like a curtain over his eyes.

"No doubt you've spent the better part of the evening wracking your memory for the reason why I summoned you," Snape said coolly. "Has the famous Malfoy intellect dredged up anything of note?"

Draco tried to control his features, arching an eyebrow rather than rising to the insult. "I await your enlightenment, Sir," he said.

"Await. Interesting choice of words." Snape made a complicated flourish on somebody's parchment, doubtless a particularly ornate T. "It implies patience. Temperance. Restraint, even. All the good Puritan virtues sadly lost on you." He set the parchment aside and selected another. "No, Draco, tonight I am the student and you the teacher. Enlighten me, boy: what singular charms does Mister Zabini possess that he could snatch your attention from so intriguing a subject as the uses of Grindylow parts in potions?"

"None, Sir," Draco answered, corners of his mouth rebelliously trying to curl up.

Snape's own mouth thinned, becoming a rigid line. "Perhaps it was Mister Weasley who caught your interest, then," he said. "His desk was adjacent to Zabini's, and your wink did fly broad. Could Potter's token dunce have been its intended recipient? I must say, Draco, I do abhor your taste."

Draco grimaced. "You wouldn't believe that for one minute," he challenged. "And Blaise, he just needed a bit of help."

"Help? So now you are an altruist?" Snape looked up finally. Though his features were as stiff and controlled as always, his eyes seethed with rage. "Explain yourself, boy, or you'll be licking powdered beetle from between the flagstones until they bloody shine!"

Draco lost his reign on this mouth in more than one way then, the smirk blossoming as he quipped. "I can think of better things to lick."

Snape was silent for a moment, as still as rigor mortis except for the burning embers of his eyes. When he spoke, his tones were clipped. "Strip and bend over my desk."

Draco's hands flew to his collar, pulling it open and then unbuttoning as quickly as he could. "Yes, Sir," he answered, pulling clothing as he kicked off his shoes. Snape watched with an air of acute disinterest as Draco peeled off his socks. In one fluid motion he rose and strode over to the innocuous-looking cabinet on the opposite wall.

Draco managed to throw most of his clothes over one of the chairs, leaving the collar he wore under them and then bent over the desk. He trembled, his cock already hard in anticipation.

Snape produced a key from inside his sleeve, suspended on a thin silver chain from his wrist. He fit it into the lock on the cabinet door, which swung open noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges. Inside was a discreetly gleaming orgy of leather and cold steel, a collection of disciplinary implements that would have made Tocquemada sweat with jealousy. Draco looked back over his shoulder, skin shivering, not just from the cold of the dungeon, but from anticipation.

Snape’s gaze flickered over the toys. He tapped his chin with a bony finger in an exaggerated pose of deliberation. Of course, there was no true suspense to his decision; both parties knew exactly what instrument his hand would come to rest upon even before he had opened the cabinet.

It was the sort of paddle that headmasters at the finest English boarding schools had been abusing their charges with since time out of mind: a thick mahogany beauty, elegant in its simplicity, with a leather grip moulded with the outline of five long fingers. Snape curved his grip around the haft. When he strode back to the desk his pace was leisurely, unhurried. He came to stand behind Draco, who was following the professor's movements with bright, almost feverish eyes. Draco arched his back, pushing his arse up eagerly.

"How many," Snape said, letting the edge of the paddle ghost along the crack of Draco's arse, "do you think you deserve?"

"As many as you wish, Sir," Draco responded, muscles in his arse clenching at that touch of the wood.

"Good boy." Snape's voice didn't lose a degree of chill, but his tone was approving. "You will count the strokes aloud," he continued. He shifted his body to position the flat of the paddle over Draco's cheeks, no longer just a teasing touch. "I will continue until I find you properly repentant. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Draco replied, promptly, fingers curling around the edges of the desk as he waited for the first blow.

The paddle was almost soundless as it descended towards the boy, only the whistle of disturbed air to announce its imminence. When it landed, though, the rich crack of wood against flesh was like a thunderclap.

Draco felt the vibration before the pain registered, pushing his hips against the edge of the desk. Pain blossomed in the wake of the sound and he drew a sharp breath, holding it for a moment before he managed, "One, Sir!"

Snape raised his arm again and brought the paddle down, this blow landing perfectly aligned over the reddened square of skin from the last.

The pain was faster this time, almost simultaneous with force of it. Draco grunted with it and held in his breath while the warmth followed. It took more effort this time to answer. "Two, Sir."

"Only two and already you're sweating," Snape murmured, lifting the paddle. "This does not bode well for you, boy." Crack.

What it did bode well for was Draco's erection, which surged with every blow. "Three, Sir," he gasped, a small moan following the words.

Snape paused to run a cold fingertip over the red blossoming on Draco's right cheek. The muscle jumped, rabbit-like, at his touch, and Snape sneered. "Not nearly repentant enough." Crack.

Draco's moan was first this time, shuddering and gasping for breath. "Please, Sir," and then, after a gulp of breath, "four."

"Please, sir?" Snape mimicked, giving Draco's scorching arse a vicious pinch. "Terribly vague, Draco. You'll have to do better than that." The crack as the paddle met skin was louder than ever.

Draco's cheeks felt like they were on fire and his prick ached, heavy under him. "Five, Sir, please, fuck me, please," Draco babbled now.

Snape tched and ran the haft of the paddle along Draco's sweaty crease. "Greedy boy," he murmured, dipping inside. "Making eyes at any man who glances in your direction like a wanton slut." Nudging against Draco's twitching hole, paddle-grip and bony knuckle. " _My_ wanton slut."

"Yes, yours, Sir," Draco agreed, opening his legs wider and pushing up against the pressure, legs trembling and knuckles white where he held the desk.

" _Yesss_ ," Snape hissed, rubbing his knuckle against Draco's anus. The damp knot of his erection ground into the boy's hip, swollen within the confines of those singularly professorial wool trousers. "Never forget who you belong to."

"Yes, belong to you," Draco agreed, wriggling his hips in response, the wool scratchy, particularly where it touched his red and swollen arse.

The paddle clattered against the desk. Snape reached into his robes for a vial of lubricant with one hand, stroking the inflamed flesh of Draco's buttocks with the other. The lube was an oily substance, cold to the touch; Snape wet his fingers with it and dragged them across the scarlet swell of his student's arse, letting his fingertips scrape across the heated skin.

Draco didn't hold back his moans now, knowing they pleased Severus as well. Spankings always made his flesh hyper-sensitive and warm. His skin was shining perspiration and his cock dripping pre-come.

"Still not repentant enough," Snape muttered, drizzling lube down Draco's crack. He freed his cock, almost as crimson with arousal as Draco's cheeks – both sets of cheeks – and anointed the weeping glans with a chilly dollop.

Draco felt overwhelmed with need and incoherent with arousal. "Not enough, Sir," he echoed, the cool of the oil both soothing and an exciting promise of what was to come.

Snape wetted his fingers with more oil and pressed them to Draco's hole. His finger slid in easily to the second knuckle; he added another, twisting the slick digits inside the tight, yielding channel.

Draco moaned in delight, face pressed to the wood of the desk. "Please, Sir, yes," he begged.

The corners of Snape's mouth tautened in what might, in another man, have been a smile. "I could make you come like this, with my fingers buried in your arse," he said, twisting his fingers to underscore the point and wringing another moan from Draco. "Or I could fuck you into the desk until you spill all over yourself like the wanton slut you are. Your choice."

"Oh, please, Sir, please fuck me," Draco begged shameless and needy. He loved the way Severus reduced him to this.

"Since you asked so sweetly," Snape said. The blunt tip of his cock breached Draco, stretching the well-oiled ring of muscle around slick, throbbing heat. Snape's fingers dug into Draco's hips as he penetrated him, sliding into him maddeningly slowly until he was sheathed inside Draco's gasping body.

This is what Draco had craved, needed. Sometimes Severus seemed reluctant to give it to him, prudish about Draco's age, his perceived inexperience. Which was why Draco provoked him, giving the older man the excuse to please them both. Snape could never resist an opportunity to punish a recalcitrant student. Or fuck one.

Snape was still for a moment, bent over Draco's back with his pubis flush against that scorching arse, hands encircling Draco's slender wrists in an iron grip that, like his uneven breathing, betrayed his lust. Then he began to thrust slowly, shallowly, cock leaving Draco's body barely at all before being buried inside of him again.

Draco moaned and surrendered to the man. He whimpered at the delicious combination of pain and pleasure, his arse feeling on fire, his hole clenching around the flesh stretching him, and the weight of the other man's body pressing him down.

Snape hissed as the body beneath him went limp, digging fingernails into Draco's thighs hard enough to leave crescent-moon indentations. In one fluid, brutal motion he dragged Draco against him as he thrust forward, pistoning his hips with such force that the slap of his balls against Draco's was not unlike the sound of the paddle. Draco let himself go, let himself moan and whimper and surrender to the rough fucking in an expression of raw emotion he rarely allowed himself anywhere else.

***

"Oh, ah, AH, fuck!..."

Harry stopped dead, hand flying to his wand. It sounded as though somebody were in pain, possibly being tortured – would Snape really use the Cruciatus Curse on a student?

Or perhaps Malfoy had turned on the potions master – but no, that was a boy's crying, not a man's. Harry winced as another sob pierced his ears, hearing also a soft wet slapping sound. Holy fuck, Snape was hitting Malfoy! Harry felt a guilty thrill of glee at the thought.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Harry crept closer to the door, not sure whether to intervene or just enjoy the sight of the ferret being smacked around by Hogwarts' most unpopular professor. Taking a deep breath, Harry peered into Snape's office. And froze.

Malfoy was bent over Snape's desk at the waist, robes in a pool around his ankles. He was naked. No, not naked – naked was what Harry was when he took a shower, or stripped down after Quidditch practice. Naked described merely the absence of clothes. The word did not nearly begin to describe what Draco Malfoy was at that moment, stripped utterly bare and keening shamelessly as Snape – as Snape –

 _Sexual intercourse_ , Harry's brain prompted him in Hermione's prim voice. _Fornication. Buggery. Anal copulation. Seriously inappropriate teacher-student relationship._

 _Unseemly_ , Hermione continued in his head, but Harry was no longer listening.

Harry felt ... hot. Uncomfortably hot, heat prickling feverishly at the back of his neck, across the backs of his knees, up the insides of his thighs. Even his eyeballs were prickling. Then Harry realized it was because he had not blinked since he had caught sight of Malfoy being something far wronger than naked – with Professor Snape's cock in his arse.

He blinked. The wrongness didn't stop.

"Filthy, sordid little slut," Snape was snarling, rutting against Malfoy like a dog in heat. "My sordid slut. Say it!"

And Malfoy tipped back his head, exposing the white column of his throat to Snape's teeth, and moaned, "Your slut, Sir, yours..."

Harry might have whimpered. He wasn't entirely sure. Because as some of the fog lifted from his mind, he realised that he was achingly, painfully hard.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to assess the throbbing anarchy of sensation that was flooding his body. His skin felt suddenly too tight and when Snape growled "slut" again he though he might rip right out of himself with the unbearable awareness of every molecule in his straining cock. There was no conscious thought to pressing his palm against the bulge distending the front of his robes, only the horny mindlessness of a teen-aged boy with a raging hard-on.

 _Poofter_ , Ron accused in his mind. Harry bit down hard on his bottom lip even as he grasped at himself, clumsy as a kid playing with his prick for the first time. The heat, the _heat_ like a rash across his sticky groin, like the worst and best sunburn he'd ever had. It was wrong and it felt _good_.

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck me," Draco was whining, bucking his hips back against Snape's ruthless thrusting. Harry kneaded his cock through his pants, not willing to take himself in hand because he feared that the shock of flesh on overheated flesh would make his head explode, or at least force him to come so violently that Snape would end up with Harry's spunk in his greasy hair. And if that mental image, Snape dripping with come, didn't make him harder...

"Fuck," Harry whispered, though he wasn't sure whether he intended it as a verb or an expletive. Malfoy was absolutely obscene like this, all lewd creamy flesh but for the blushing pink cheeks and the dark, almost bloody flush to his arse. Harry frowned suddenly, squinting at Malfoy's arse. It looked as though – almost as if – had Malfoy been spanked?

Malfoy's eyes were closed and his mouth open, arching back to meet each of Snape's thrusts. "Oh, please, Sir, please let me come," he begged.

"Not yet," Snape hissed, ramming into Malfoy with bruising force.

"Please, Sir," Draco half-sobbed.

Snape thrust forward until he was sheathed fully inside the boy's body. He leaned down so that his lips were pressed against Draco's ear. "And who owns you?" he growled.

"You, Sir."

"Come."

Harry came.

So, apparently, did Malfoy. The blond howled as he spilled onto the desk, jism dripping down his thighs as he shouted incoherent things and Snape began fucking him again with a passion.

Harry made a strangled grunt as he soaked the crotch of his Y-fronts with semen. He felt the dampness almost more than he had his orgasm, mind so eclipsed with the horror of coming on Snape's command – his command to _Malfoy_ , of all people – that pleasure, and its twin, guilt, were cast in shadow.

He stumbled backwards, barking his shin on a chair leg. The sliver of light spilling through from the office into the dark classroom was blinding suddenly, glaring, somehow obscenely inviting. For a flicker of a fragment of an instant Harry wanted to go back. Wanted to watch – no, to do more than watch. Wanted to be the boy over Snape's desk with a collar and a red arse.

Then, horrified and disgusted, he turned on his heel and fled.

***

Draco's body bowed with his orgasm, clenching hard around the flesh inside him and writhing against Severus' body. He fell forward again, feeling nearly boneless and blissful as Severus continued to thrust. "Yes, oh, Sir, yes," he encouraged.

Severus pulled out of Draco to come, painting his throbbing arse with semen. Draco shuddered, the feel of that slick spunk on his overly stimulated skin making him moan again. He loved that he could make the normally reserved man lose control like this.

After the last crest of his climax had left him, Severus collapsed forward, muffling Draco's body with his own.

"You know," Severus said conversationally, "it really is miraculous that despite the fact that I have been fucking you senseless for months now, you still require reminders of your place."

"I'm _always_ good for you, Sir," Draco replied in mock innocence and smirked, looking back at the man draped across his back.

"Always cocky," Severus muttered, rolling off the boy. Draco hissed at the movement, becoming aware of just how sore he was going to be the next day by the current throbbing in his arse and ache in his muscles.

Severus noticed, and a smirk played across his sallow features. "I am going to greatly enjoy watching you attempt to sit down tomorrow," he said.

"You're a bastard," Draco accused, still smiling. His arms felt wobbly as he pushed up, swaying on his feet for a moment.

Severus grabbed Draco's wrist and pulled him close, not gently but not harshly either. "I only appreciate your dirty mouth while I'm fucking you," he growled, digging fingers into Draco's buttocks.

Draco yelped and the pain drove his hips forward into Severus'. "Or when I'm sucking you," he added, waggling his eyebrows.

Severus leaned forward and caught Draco's plump bottom lip between his teeth. He nibbled just hard enough to make the boy gasp before laving the bite with his tongue. "Such a filthy mouth," he murmured.

"As you like it, Sir," Draco whispered, arms coming up to slide around the older man's neck, fingers under the back of his hair.

Severus bent down to claim the waiting mouth, as much a gesture of ownership as sex and perhaps in its own way more intimate. Draco opened his mouth to him, allowing his lover to control the pace but responding hungrily.

The kiss grew too deep, as kisses always did between them when there was still sex in the air. Severus broke it abruptly, nipping Draco's lip firmly and pulling back. "I should spank you again for not keeping a closer eye on the time," he said, the cold impassive edge creeping back into his voice. "Filch will be prowling these corridors looking for miscreants."

"I am a miscreant," Draco smirked and when Severus sneered, added, "I'll be fine." He moved back, looking about for his wand and clothing.

"If you should meet anyone, tell them you were on an errand for me," Severus said, buttoning up his robe.

Draco cast a Cleaning Charm on himself, then winced as he pulled his own clothing back on, hissing at the touch of fabric to his arse in particular.

"Draco," Severus said once Draco had finished. Draco looked up expectantly. "Come here."

Draco responded with an arched eyebrow and a cheeky grin as he moved to Severus, who took Draco roughly by the hips and pulled Draco to him. "If I ever," Severus said softly, "catch you making eyes at Blaise Zabini again, I won't stop at five. Or even twenty. Do you understand?"

Draco huffed. "I have no interest in Blaise," he drawled, then sighed. "Yes, I understand ... Sir."

"Good boy." Severus gave Draco a quick kiss, squeezed his sore arse hard enough to elicit a gasp, and said, "Off with you now. I have papers to grade, you know."

"Yes, Sir," Draco answered, moving to the door, then pausing. "Good night, Severus."

"Good night, Draco."


End file.
